


A Scandal In Bohemia (1888)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [82]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Austria, Destiel - Freeform, F/M, Impersonation, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Murder
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-17
Updated: 2017-05-17
Packaged: 2018-11-01 20:14:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10929243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: A murder that Sherlock solved without going to the town in which it took place - but not, perhaps, to our client's complete satisfaction.





	A Scandal In Bohemia (1888)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bookworm4ever81](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookworm4ever81/gifts).



I enjoyed my tour of the battlefields of the Crimea, putting places to such familiar names as Balaclava and Sebastopol, and I really enjoyed our plush hotel in Odessa with its adjoining rooms and huge, luxurious bathrooms – gold taps! - and excellent service. And when Sherlock smiled at me across his mound of (his and my) bacon, I felt like I could not be happier.

Yet despite all this, I found that I was missing our Baker Street home more and more. I was still plucking up the courage to broach the subject with my friend, until one day he suddenly turned to me and said simply, “London?”

“Oh yes!” I said, perhaps a little too fervently. 

My fears that I might be pushing my friend into an earlier than planned departure were swiftly proved groundless, as he had provisionally arranged a return schedule to recross the Continent with stops in Cracow and Dresden and, eventually, a night ferry from Rotterdam. I must admit that I was torn over the former; I had always held an admiration for the plucky Poles, but I really wanted to be back in Baker Street as soon as possible, and to see the sodden mists of an English winter outside my windows whilst I was toasty warm by my fire, with my friend close by my side. I discussed this with Sherlock, and he suggested spending one full day there (i.e. two nights at the hotel). 

Thanks to the efficacy of the new telegram system, I would come to regret that particular decision. On the other hand, I would get to see my friend once more solve a case in a town without even (technically) visiting it, just as he had done in our third case (ahem!) years ago.

+~+~+

Today (1936) Poland is once more a free state, although with a wary eye to the ever-greedy Russian Empire (now the dreadful Communist Union of Soviet Socialist Republics) to the east, and the wounded but still formidable German Empire under the worrisome Herr Hitler to the west. In those far-off days however, the inaptly-named Grand Duchy of Cracow was the sole faintly flickering beacon of Polish freedom, the town having been begrudgingly granted a smidgen of extra autonomy out on the eastern march of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. I enjoyed our day there, but it was marred when Sherlock and I returned exhausted to our hotel to find a telegram. I shuddered when he told me it was from the obnoxious Bacchus Holmes. It could not be good news. 

It was not.

“Bacchus wants me to investigate a small matter in a town called Lobositz", he told me", "in the Sudetenland of Bohemia." 

“Where on earth is that?” I asked. He smiled.

“Fortunately it is not out of our way”, he said. “Lobositz is on the railway line between Prague and Dresden, up which we were to travel anyway. And he wants me to stop off in Prague and meet someone involved with the case beforehand, after which they will take us there.”

“He takes too much advantage of you”, I growled. Sherlock smiled at me.

“You would do anything for your brother”, he pointed out.

“Yes, but Sammy is no Bacchus”, I countered, feeling mulish. “I just do not like the man.”

“I do not think that he likes you much, either”, Sherlock said. “He thinks you are a bad influence on me, using your writings to exploit me and make money out of my abilities.”

I opened my mouth to voice just what I thought of that, but just in time caught the twinkle in my friend's blue eyes. I huffed indignantly.

“I hate you!” I not-pouted. 

He just gave me the kicked puppy expression, and I sighed. I was putty in his hands, damnation!

+~+~+

We checked out of our hotel in Cracow, and some hours later arrived safely at the main station in beautiful Prague. There we booked ourselves into the station hotel, where Mr. Bacchus Holmes had already reserved us rooms (non-adjoining ones I noticed sourly, which Sherlock quickly corrected, and I was still feeling put out at the use of my friend's talents whilst he was supposed to be on holiday). Herr Franz Strüchen, the contact that the lounge-lizard wanted us to meet, was apparently already in the city, but as it was already after seven o'clock when we arrived, Sherlock refused to see him until the following morning. I was more than grateful for this.

A card sent up with our breakfast the following morning told us that Herr Strüchen was already waiting downstairs to see us, despite the ungodly hour of the morning. Since it turned out that his brother was paying for everything, Sherlock ordered a triple helping of extra bacon, and the way those blue eyes lit up and what was virtually half a pig on a plate was a joy to behold, especially when he tried as was his wont to cram several pieces into his mouth at once. Of course he brought his own bottle of Heinz Tomato Ketchup, without which he deemed any breakfast incomplete.

I was so lucky to have him in my life!

Herr Strüchen, it turned out, was mayor of the town of Lobositz. He was a portly fellow in his mid- to late forties, pale-skinned and white-blond, and seemed almost pathetically grateful that we had come to his rescue. Clearly whatever recent horror had enabled him to call upon the services of Mr. Bacchus Holmes must have been bad, as he was shaking slightly as we met. I sincerely hoped that Sherlock could solve his mystery quickly, whatever it was.

“This, Mr. Holmes, is a case of murder most foul!” the mayor began. “And in my own home, to boot!”

“Terrible”, Sherlock muttered. “Please begin at the beginning, sir, and leave no detail out, no matter how small or inconsequential it may seem.”

“It happened five days ago”, the mayor said, “at the mayoral ball. I had just been invested for another year, and it was decided to hold a costume ball to mark the start of my fourth term in office.”

“You say that 'it was decided'”, Sherlock said. “By whom, pray?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Who decided to have the party'” Sherlock asked.

The mayor had to think about that for some time.

“My daughter, Barbara”, he said at last. Then he went pale. “Mr. Holmes, you do not think…..”

I rarely 'think'”, Sherlock said smoothly. “I prefer to 'know', as it makes life infinitely simpler. It is possible that if this was part of whatever happened, then someone could quite easily have suggested the idea to your daughter, knowing that she would be able to persuade you. Is she your only daughter?”

The man nodded.

“Yes”, he said. “I have three sons; Frederick, Albert and Ernest, but I would do anything for dear Barbara.”

“Please continue with your story”, Sherlock said. The mayor shook himself.

“The events of the evening revolve around four gentlemen, who adjourned to an upstairs room for some quiet smoking-time”, he said. “We do not have an official smoking-room as my wife loathes the practice, but she allows it on occasion. The men left the main party at around eight; the dancing had just begun and the band were….”

“ _Dramatis personae_ , if you please”, Sherlock cut in. I could see why; the mayor definitely seemed prone to ramble.

“My eldest son, Frederick, is twenty-three years of age”, the mayor said. “Then there is Mr. Marcus Daventry, twenty-eight, the son and heir of my English friend Lord Daventry, the Marquis of Dunsmore. Lord Peter is an acquaintance of your brother, Mr. Holmes, which is how he became involved.”

(I should mention at this point that the Marquis of Dunsmore, a cross-bencher, commanded great respect in the House of Lords at this time, and his opposition had already cost the government one bill. Little wonder that Mr. Bacchus Holmes was involved with the son of someone so important.)

“Then there is Mr. James Barking”, the mayor continued, “Mr. Daventry’s thirty-one-year-old companion and travelling companion. And finally the victim, Herr Wilhelm St. Moritz, the twenty-eight-year-old son of one of the chief merchants in the area. His father lives next door but one to me.”

Sherlock stared pointedly at the man, who shook under his azure gaze. I wondered why, until the mayor suddenly started up again.

“Young Wilhelm had had what I think you might call ‘an understanding’ with my daughter”, he said ruefully. “The romance of the girl next door is a cliché, but it does sometimes happen. However, when the Englishmen arrived in town two weeks ago, Barbara decided… well…..”

He tailed off, clearly embarrassed. I could see why.

“Let us resume your fascinating narration of the evening’s events”, Sherlock said. “Pray continue.”

The mayor seemed grateful for being saved from that particular line of questioning. As would I have been.

“Frederick saw Wilhelm in the garden about an half an hour later”, he continued, “and about an hour and a half after that my wife saw him crossing the balcony above the main hall and called out to him as she was ascending the stairs with her companion, Miss Sellers. To her surprise he ignored her - although I may suppose that he could not hear her over the music, which was a little loud - and knocked at one of the bedroom doors.”

“Whose door?” Sherlock asked.

“That of my third son, Ernest”, the mayor said. “He was away studying in Dresden at the time of the party.”

“That was fortunate for him”, Sherlock observed. “Was the room occupied by anyone else?”

The mayor stared at him in confusion.

“No”, he said. “Why would it have been?”

“Herr St. Moritz presumably knew that your son was absent”, Sherlock explained, “which implies that he had an assignation with someone in that room. You said that your wife was ascending the stairs at the time. For what reason?”

Herr Strüchen looked distinctly uncomfortable.

“She wished to change her jewellery”, he said. “She has this large necklace which is very gaudy and expensive; she loves it, but it is very heavy to wear for a long period of time.”

I personally thought that rather weak, but Sherlock indicated that he should continue, which he was once again more than glad to do.

“Wilhelm was admitted to the room by whoever was inside, and my wife turned back to talk to her companion and carried on up the stairs, continuing to her room which is in the other direction. About three to five minutes passed, then there was the sound of a gun being fired from the room Wilhelm had entered, twice in quick succession. Everyone froze for a moment, then of course most of the gentlemen hurried up the stairs. Mr. Barking reached the door first – he had been descending the stairs at the time - and found it locked, but he broke it down with one charge. By the time the rest of us got there, he was holding poor Wilhelm's body. The man was clearly dead.”

“One moment”, Sherlock put in. “You said that Mr. Barking reached the dead man first. How long did he reach Herr St. Moritz before everyone else?”

The mayor looked puzzled.

“Probably no more than half a minute”, he said. “There was something of a log-jam on the stairs as everyone tried to get up at once, you see, and the turn at the top is also rather tight. But the bullets had already been fired at that point.”

“Correction”, Sherlock said primly. “You had heard two bullets being fired, and had subsequently found a man who had been shot.”

The mayor looked perplexed, clearly not seeing Sherlock's point. I could empathize.

“I should also add that there was one thing of interest in the room”, the mayor said. “Or just outside it. The window out onto the balcony was open, and there was a muddy footprint on the balcony railing. The constable who called round later that evening also found marks that indicated a rope had been tied around one of the balcony pillars.”

“A smart man, if he noticed that”, Sherlock observed. “Did the footprint match with the foot size of any of the three men?”

“Only Mr. Barking's”, the mayor said. “The other two had larger feet. But it was definitely a poor quality shoe, very worn, and not the sort of thing a man of Mr. Barking's quality would be wearing.”

I stared curiously at the mayor.

“This seems too obvious”, I said suspiciously. “Why did the constable not arrest Mr. Barking, or at least ask him to remain under your custody?”

“Because we were able to rule Mr. Barking out almost immediately”, the mayor said, sounding almost rueful. “The doctor who examined the body of the victim noticed some unusual bruising on his, Mr. Barking’s, body, and asked him about it. The man claimed that he suffered from a disease which makes his bones more brittle than usual. Not so that it imposes on his daily life, but there are certain activities – including firing any weapon – which would be beyond him. Mr. Daventry confirmed this, and I understand that the police also checked the matter via the electronic telegraph. So that leaves my own son and an English lord. We can have either a family catastrophe or an international incident!”

He looked so down that I felt like laughing, however inappropriate that would have been. Fortunately I did not.

“Where were these two men at the time that the body was found?” Sherlock asked, eying me for some reason.

“The local constable asked that”, the mayor said distastefully. “Mr. Daventry was walking alone in the garden, and Frederick was, ahem, in the water closet.”

“And your daughter?” Sherlock asked. The mayor frowned, but answered the question.

“She was resting in her own bedroom, which is two doors down. Naturally she was horrified by all this. The doctor gave her a sedative for the shock.”

“You say that this was a costume ball”, Sherlock said. “What did each of these people come as?”

The mayor frowned at the question.

“Really, Mr. Holmes, I do not see the relevance….”

“Humour me”, Sherlock pressed. The mayor sighed in a put-upon way.

“Frederick came as D’Artagnan, one of Dumas' Musketeers”, he said, frowning as he tried to remember. “All ruffs and bows; he nearly caught fire when he stood too close to one of the candles, the young idiot! Mr. Daventry came as a pirate, in quite a good costume, eye-patch and all. Mr. Barking came as Shakespeare's Falstaff, for which he most definitely had the figure. And Wilhelm came as King Frederick II of Prussia, which was tactless of him. But then, he rarely 'did' tact.”

I looked at Sherlock in confusion.

“There are many in that area who would rather prefer to be part of Prussian Germany than Austria”, he explained, before turning back to the mayor. “And your daughter?”

The mayor blushed.

“She came dressed as a cat-burglar”, he muttered, clearly embarrassed at the memory. “Had I known beforehand, I would have forbidden it, but she only came down once several of the guests had arrived, and of course many of them – especially the gentlemen – liked her costume greatly. It was quite indecent!”

I suppressed a smile.

“Tell us what happened in and after the smoking-room”, Sherlock urged.

“The gentlemen had gone there around eight, as I said, and spent an hour in the room smoking and talking. Barbara went in to join them – again, not something I really approve of, but she is rather modern at times - around a quarter to nine. There was apparently some mild altercation between Wilhelm and Mr. Daventry over her affections when she entered, but Mr. Barking – who admitted it to me - managed to smooth things over. It ended with Barbara and Wilhelm adjourning to a private room to, ahem, discuss matters.”

Sherlock frowned. 

“What are your eldest son’s feelings on this matter?” he asked.

The mayor reddened.

“Really, Mr. Holmes, I….”

“Herr Strüchen, I am effectively a doctor of science”, Sherlock said patiently. “You would not go to a doctor like Watson here and only provide him with half of your symptoms, and then expect an accurate diagnosis. As I said earlier, I need _all_ the facts, even those you that yourself may consider irrelevant. Please answer the question.”

The man sighed.

“Frederick was angry with Barbara for changing her mind”, he said. “He thought Wilhelm to be a perfectly good match, even though he is seven years older than my daughter. And he thought – and said – that Barbara was only after Mr. Daventry for his money.”

Which she probably was, I thought but did not say. Judging from my friend’s heavy silence, he felt the same way. Sherlock thought for some time.

“When the doctor examined the body, did he say anything?” he asked.

“He thought that the man may have been lying down when he was shot!” the mayor snorted. “I have my doubts about old Doctor Henkel; I thought that maybe he had had one too many beers!”

“On the contrary”, Sherlock said. “Your local doctor was not only highly observant but quite correct in his assessment. Tell me, which rooms adjoin your youngest son's bedroom?”

“To the left is a spare bedroom, which Barbara's friends use when they stay over”, he said. “My second son, Albert, who was visiting a friend in Bonn that day, sleeps in the room on the other side. The doors to both are not usually locked.”

My friend sighed, sounding almost unhappy.

“I have another question”, he said eventually, “and it is extremely important. Herr Strüchen, so take your time, I need you to describe the physical appearances of all five characters in this story.”

“Frederick is very tall – he gets that from his mother – blond and muscular. He is considering a career in the army, and I am sure that he would do very well, as he can be aggressive when pushed but can take orders. Mr. Barking, and I probably should not say this, could benefit from losing about thirty pounds, if not fifty. He is dark-haired and rather plain. Mr. Daventry is short, blond, has a long nose and is extremely muscular; I believe that he is highly skilled in one of the eastern fighting arts, though I do not know which one. He is not exactly ugly, but I can see why my wife once remarked that Dunsmore Hall may well be his most attractive feature. And Wilhelm was dark-haired, slightly below average height and very slim. He was one of those people who could seem to eat anything and never put on weight.”

I eyed the mayor's more than ample girth and bit back a catty remark. Sherlock, of course, shot me another warning look. I blushed.

“And your daughter?” he pressed. The mayor frowned.

“She is petite, almost frail, black hair and a little below average height”, he said. “Mr. Holmes, I do not see the point of this.”

Sherlock sighed heavily.

“Perhaps it would have been nice to visit your little town, Herr Strüchen”, he said with a wan smile, “but the doctor and I really should be getting back to England.”

“But the case!” the mayor spluttered.

“The case is solved”, Sherlock said quietly.

“How?” the mayor demanded. “Which of those men was the murderer?”

“None of them”, Sherlock said. “I am sorry, sir, but there is no easy way to break this to you. Wilhelm St. Moritz was murdered by your own daughter, Barbara.”

The man gasped, and I was sure that he would have collapsed had he not been sat down.

“Sir, I must protest!” he began.

“I will tell you why, first”, Sherlock said. “I am only uncertain as to one matter in this case, and that is precisely how far the relationship between your daughter and Herr St. Moritz had proceeded before she decided to accept the suit of Mr. Daventry. I would hope for all our sakes that a child is not involved….”

The mayor had gone deathly white.

“… but it may be that she and Herr St. Moritz merely had some sort of signed understanding which would have rendered it impossible for Mr. Daventry to pursue his suit. I hope for all our sakes that the latter was indeed the case.”

There was no alcohol in the vicinity, but I belatedly remembered my hip-flask, and poured the entire contents into a glass before offering it to the stunned mayor. He drank it down in one shot without apparently registering it, but a little colour reappeared on his cheeks.. 

“I happen to know a little of the Marquis of Dunsmore”, Sherlock said, “and he is a highly moral character. I am certain that, as your daughter swiftly realized, he would disinherit his son if he had tried to form a union with a lady already betrothed, no matter the legal niceties involved. And although Marcus is his only son, the Marquis has three reliable nephews one of whom would, I am sure, willingly step up if needed. But if the person that the lady in question was betrothed to had died – or been killed – then that would be another matter.”

“Barbara would never do anything like that!” the mayor objected. Sherlock shook his head.

“She meets with Herr St. Moritz, most probably in the empty bedroom next to her own, and persuades him to drink something that will knock him out”, he said. “This is the even more unfortunate part, because what comes next shows that there was considerable pre-meditation involved. She has secured the keys to the house, so the room that she uses is locked, whilst the connecting doors to your youngest son's room and through to her own room are both unlocked. She then dons the 'Frederick the Great' costume over her own and slips back into the party for a short time, but is careful not to speak to anybody, lest her voice give her away.”

“How can you know all this?” the mayor asked, aghast.

“You described the costumes and build of each player in this drama”, Sherlock explained. “The only person who could have doubled for Herr St. Moritz for any length of time had to have had a similar build, and also had to have an outfit over which another costume could have been easily worn. Also, the shots that killed the victim had to have been fired from extremely close range, otherwise they might well have been heard.”

“It was your daughter, disguised as her victim whom she had heavily drugged some time before, who made sure that ‘Frederick the Great’ was seen to enter the fatal room at a time when Herr St. Moritz was dead. It takes her only a few minutes to remove her second costume and to re-dress the corpse in it. She then shoots her victim twice, which is why he was lying down when shot; as I said, your doctor was quite right in that. She knew that from the gunshots she would have barely a minute to make her escape through the connecting door, which she does, locking it behind her.”

“But what about proof?” I asked. “If she denies it, a jury may well believe her.”

Sherlock looked pityingly at the mayor.

“I think that if the police analyze Miss Strüchen's costume closely enough”, he said, “they will find traces of the king's costume that she wore over it for at least an hour. Similarly, there may be fragments of her costume on the inside of her victim's, or possibly even a hair. There may also be gunshot residue on her hands; no amount of washing will truly remove it, although I am sure that she has tried. I dare say that a closer examination of the body will show that the victim was shot some time after death, as of course at the time, the doctor was told that the man had been alive just seconds before he was shot. And that examination may also yield evidence of the drug that he was given, which would preclude his having been the person your wife saw entering the room.”

“My daughter is a killer”, the mayor said heavily.

“I am sorry”, my friend said. “But there can be no doubt in the matter.”

The man seemed to pull himself together.

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Holmes”, he said. “Your brother was right. You are indeed an agent of justice, not just the law.”

+~+~+

We had a day in Prague which I still managed to enjoy, despite my feeling sorry for the poor Herr Strüchen. We resumed our journey the following day, and Sherlock did not even look up from his paper when our train paused briefly at Lobositz Station, en route to Dresden. I too had had enough of the Continent (although I was grateful to one town in northern Italy), and we had already decided to forgo the German city and head for home as quickly as possible. Thankfully we made good time to Rotterdam so as to catch the night ferry to Sheerness. There was a telegram waiting for Sherlock in the Dutch port, and he sighed as he read it.

“Bacchus says that Barbara Strüchen has left the family home in Lobositz”, he said. “Alone.”

“Better a life on the road than a length of rope”, I suggested.”Although I pity any man who is foolish enough to get too close to that lady.”

He nodded, as we went to a restaurant to kill the few hours before the ferry sailed. We were nearly home.

+~+~+

It would not have been me, of course, had our Continental journey had one last hitch, when our next case trapped us in the one place that we could not escape from it.


End file.
